


In Which A Young Boy Discovers The Many Broken Ways To Find Light

by Euphoriette



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Humanstuck, M/M, cronus saves the day (kind of), dualscar is the fucking Cactus among a sea of Pricks, eridan is smol and angry, gamzee is swol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-26 02:48:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14991116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Euphoriette/pseuds/Euphoriette
Summary: Cronus sings of peace, a grand sweeping feeling, and that’s why he’s a fool. As you flick open and close your pocket-knife in your hand, you figure you are a long way from being saved. You do consider yourself uniquely qualified to recognize when all hope is lost.





	In Which A Young Boy Discovers The Many Broken Ways To Find Light

There’s a certain strangeness in the air, and the feeling is an everyday ocurrence in your household, right before your father arrives home. The strangeness feels like it’s waiting, and you catch yourself holding your breath.

You know today’s going to get worse. Every day get worse honestly, for you, every minute is down the toilet. Your time at school is precious to you, and you wish you never had to come home. Can you even call this house a home anymore? It’s more like a death sentence.

You bite your nails and press your ear to the right-side wall of your room, the wall with Cronus on the opposite side, twanging away on his guitar. Every suspended fourth sounds through you leaving you cold-blooded. You especially hate E Minors, they just sound so hopeless. If there was a sound for giving up, it would sound like an E Minor.

His voice soothes you though, and the anciently rough sound of his Irish grounds you in the moment:

_Ach go beo bocht a tháinig le mian ar an saol_  
_Chun deoraithe fánacha a shaoradh ón éag_  
_Is nuair 'chrochfar in airde mé_  
_claonfaid chugam féin_  
_Codail, a linbh, go sámh_  
_Codail, a linbh, go sámh_

_Desperately poor, I came with desire into this world_  
_To save wandering exiles from death_  
_And when I am suspended on high_  
_They will lean towards me_  
_Sleep peacefully, my child_  
_Sleep peacefully, my child_

Cronus sings of peace, a grand sweeping feeling, and that’s why he’s a fool. As you flick open and close your pocket-knife in your hand, you figure you are a long way from finding peace. You do consider yourself uniquely qualified to recognize when all hope is lost.

The invisible strangeness worms it’s way into your lungs, deep into the night. You’ve long since finished your homework, and you try to think of anything else you’ve forgotten or left outside your room. You remember running to the kitchen to get some food to stash in the cooler in the corner, because going outside while your father’s at home is near-suicidal, and you desperately try to remember if you’ve left anything you need downstairs.

In the back of your mind you notice Cronus’s song has changed, it’s a loud, brave tune now. _Amhrán na bhFiann_ , The Soldier's Song, you realize. A song of rebellion and change.

You hear the front door click open, the song stops abruptly, and you stiffen. You hear Cronus shuffle around, and the sudden flicking rhythm of his pocket-knife matches yours to the tee. Your heart thunders in your chest, and your brain is working double-time, singing a panicky chorus, as the strangeness in your lungs escalates into something more and you _can’t breathe-_

The thought hits you like a train as you uselessly try to suck in air, choking, and you nearly vomit.

_You left your inhaler downstairs._

It’s so vivid now, and you want to scream at yourself. You had taken it with you, you were coughing up a fit, so you took a few puffs while getting food to stash in your cooler. Then, like a fucking dumbass, you left it on the kitchen counter.

And now, your lungs are malfunctioning, and you need the motherfucking thing back, because oxygen is becoming alarmingly sparse quickly. 

You don’t even want to move, you’re scared as hell and you feel like you’ve been pinned with stakes of ice, but if you want to breathe, you need the damn thing, so you get up.

Gripping your pocket-knife so hard you bleed, trying your damndest not to cough, you steel yourself, focus, and will away your sudden paralysis. 

Opening your door, your heart pounds like a war-drum, and you quiet your breathing, stepping softly out into the dark upstairs hall.


End file.
